Glimpses
by Maple Fay
Summary: ...when he thinks back, he is strongly convinced that's what happened to them: their hearts floated towards one another, gently but determinedly, to be forever kept by the other person. C/H through the years.
1. Prologue

_**A/N:** I cannot make myself stay away from this little universe I'd created in "Inside, Outside…" and "Chase You Like The Rain". And some people have been kind enough to tell me not to. So there you go. I hope you like it…_

0o0o0o

**Prologue**

Sometimes, when he thinks back, he cannot quite say when it has all started. Perhaps on the day when she'd helped him with that old, tattered jacket, so alike himself in many ways. Perhaps on the train back from a ceremony during which he was given no award, although he did win something important all the same.

Or maybe when he first spoke to her, welcoming her at Downton.

He doesn't know, and it doesn't bother him.

Lady Edith—Miss Edith at the time—the reader in the family, had once told both of them about a custom still practiced somewhere in the Eastern Europe: on midsummer's eve young people, loving and wanting to be loved, would each make a wreath of fresh flowers, place a candle in its middle and let it float in the water: a lake, a pond, but most often a river. Tens of such little lights move gently over the waves, drifting with a current until somebody catches one. They say that person will forever keep the heart of the wreath's owner, hold it as their own.

He can remember her frown slightly upon hearing this, pondering the implications, a thousand images indubitably flashing in front of her attentive eyes. "What happens if two wreaths meet in the water, Miss Edith?" she'd asked, genuinely interested, leaning forward and encouraging the girl with a smallest smile. Miss Edith frowned right back.

"I think the people who made them would hold _each other's_ hearts forever, Mrs. Hughes," she answered at long last, obviously proud of her own reasoning.

When he thinks back, he is strongly convinced that's what happened to them.

Their hearts floated towards one another, gently but determinedly, to be forever kept by the other person.

0o0o0o

Naturally, he would never tell her that, fearing that she'd laugh at his softness, and the overly romantic side of his nature that is usually kept well hidden under the layers of propriety, professional restrain and seriousness.

And yet, when he opens the door and she raises her eyes to meet his, he knows that's _precisely_ the case.

"Are you tired?" he asks, walking over to where he most likes to sit in that small, quiet room that has already seen so many things, been witness to so many conversations.

She gives him a smile—sometimes a genuine and bright one, sometimes no more than a shadow ghosting over her features—and always answers in the very same way:

"Not anymore."

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Thank you very much for all your kind reviews and encouragement. I hope this instalment won't disappoint you._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_**March 1903**_

The first dress she wears after being promoted to housekeeper is a dark, rich shade of green, bringing out the blue of her eyes as she looks up at him when they meet in the hallway outside the library.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

_It's not the name he calls her by in his head. In his heart._

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she answers with a small smile; there's a different quality to her voice now that she's in charge: it's a little lower, sitting comfortably in her throat, inspiring trust and confidence. He wonders if the others can hear it, too, or of it's just him, focusing somewhat involuntarily on every small detail that concerns her.

He nods, and she passes by him as she continues her rounds, keys dangling quietly at her waist. He tilts his head and lets himself listen to the sound, following it until it fades away in the distance.

_It will become a habit of his before long._

* * *

_**May 1903**_

He's not impressed by the new addition to his "downstairs family", thinking her stubborn, foul-mouthed and arrogant. And above all, she _smokes_! Is that a quality one would look for in a lady's maid?

He complains about it when he visits the housekeeper's parlour one evening, sipping on his tea and letting the day slide right off his shoulders, dissolve in the soft shadows of the room that's warmer than any other place downstairs. He wonders if there's a chimney shaft running along one of the walls, or whether it's simply the presence of the room's current owner that keeps the temperature up.

She listens to him grumble for a while with patience and understanding, before she finally gives up and raises a hand, stopping his tirade mid-word. "I believe Miss O'Brien deserves a chance," she says carefully, not quite attacking his position, but bending his resolve ever so gently. "She's very good at her job, and she wants to be even better. She's already grown quite attached to her ladyship—why not give it some time, see how it unfolds?"

He purses his lips, puts the cup down on its saucer. "Don't tell me her devotion to the job made you like her despite everything else."

She gives him a calm, level look and stands up to gather the tea things up on a tray and take them to the scullery. "It's as good a place to start as any. I thought you knew that, Mr. Carson."

And he did; he _does_, of course he does. But perhaps he's not flexible enough to let Miss O'Brien into that scheme, to see her as a valuable member of the household. It might take some time for him to do so, should they choose to keep her.

Mrs. Hughes doesn't seem to have this problem. She looks past the irritating quirks, the not-so-faint smell of cigarette smoke on Miss O'Brien's dress, the cheekiness—and sees a strong-minded, devoted person who might become an asset to the family.

He wishes he had her sense of perspective, and wonders if his inability to adapt means that he's already on the road downhill, losing the whatever-it-is that makes him ticks, makes him a good butler.

When she touches his shoulder, he startles, not having noticed when she'd gone to the scullery and came back; she is standing next to his chair now, head cocked to the side and a strange mixture of sympathy, worry and connivance filling her eyes.

"Brooding does not become you, Mr. Carson."

He winces and looks down at his hands. "Forgive me, Mrs. Hughes. I should go now, it's getting rather late and—"

"I'm not saying Miss O'Brien is an easy person to like," she explains. "I cannot tell you whether she finds a proper place for herself in this house or not. I simply wish to give her a chance. Would we be doing her a favour if we dismissed her now?"

"From your phrasing, I gather the answer you want from me is 'no'."

_This will come back to him one day._

Mrs. Hughes gives him a kind smile, perhaps bordering on coy just a little. "I only want an honest answer, Mr. Carson. No matter what it is."

"Perhaps we should hold our judgment for a little longer," he agrees, frowning, not quite sure whether she's in the right, but deciding to trust her all the same. "I think I'll turn in for the night. But I'm glad we had this conversation." And he really, genuinely is.

"Are you coming up as well?" He asks politely, wondering if he should—could—wait for her, hold the lamp to lighten her way in the darkness.

"Not just yet," she answers gently, "I still have some work to do. I'll stay a while longer."

"I've taken up too much of your time," he frowns, nonplussed.

She shakes her head, offers him another smile. She never seems to smile much outside of this room. "It was good to talk."

"Yes," he admits and clears his throat over a slight lump that has inexplicably formed in his throat. "Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."

Her last smile of the day, at least the last one anyone sees. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

* * *

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**December 1904**_

"Mrs. Hughes, might I disturb you for a moment?"

"If by 'disturb' you mean: 'ask me to dance', then yes, you may, Mr. Allen." She accepts Lord Painswick's valet's proffered hand, and lets him lead her to the dance floor.

They pass him on the way, and he closes his mouth which he'd opened to ask her the very same question.

He makes a sharp corner and goes for the new cook, Mrs. Patmore, instead—even though he cringes inwardly at the thought of all the suggestive looks the woman had been giving him recently. At least he won't have to look at his housekeeper dancing with that balding, slightly overweight man (considerably shorter than himself), laughing quietly at his jokes and lowering her eyes when he (presumably) compliments her.

It's been going on for a full week now, ever since the Painswicks have arrived to spend the Christmas season at Downton. Mr. Allen would follow Mrs. Hughes around, compliment her way of running the household, hold out a chair for her when she came down to have tea in the servants' hall. Small things, little things, things that he thinks obvious enough not to have to speak about them, to perform them on a daily basis.

_Perhaps he should have done._

And now he's dancing with the cook who won't stop talking about how tall and handsome he is, not with the housekeeper who'd look up at him with a small smile and comment on the quality of the evening, the day they'd been through, the family and their guests, making this thing about something more than just awkward dancing and shameless flirting.

Companionship. Trust. Understanding. Sincerity.

Friendship that lasts.

He finishes the dance and leads Mrs. Patmore back to her seat, politely yet firmly refusing her offer to join her for a glass of punch. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mr. Allen escort Mrs. Hughes back to her chair and hover close by, leaning down gently to whisper something close to her ear.

_There are guests that need attending to, and glasses to be collected and taken downstairs._

So he busies himself with that which he knows.

* * *

_**March 1905**_

"A letter for you, Mrs. Hughes." _From London_, he doesn't say, since she probably knows it all the same, having gotten quite a few of them in the past three months.

She takes the envelope from his hand, their fingers keeping polite distance from each other, and nods as she smiles at the strong, straight lines forming her name. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

_He wonders if this is it, and if he's just lost his companion._

The letters keep on coming, and she no longer asks him to accompany her on their rarely coinciding half-days off.

* * *

_**July 1905**_

"She's a fine woman, your Mrs. Hughes."

He winces a little since she's _not_ his, and probably never will be.

Mr. Allen has invited him to a local public house on his first afternoon off this season—and while it's not how he would have liked to spend his precious free time, he's now beginning to think there might be some quality to it yet.

"I have noticed the two of you exchange a lot of letters recently," he tries to keep his voice casual, and perhaps he fails, but they are on their respective third pints, and Mr. Allen doesn't seem to care.

"Letters, yes," he snorts, rolling his beer mug between his fingers. "_That_ we have."

There's a long, uncomfortable pause after that statement, and he almost begins to think their conversation will end there, when Mr. Allen speaks again:

"I went to see her last Sunday, you know. Felt like it was the time we talked."

_Last Sunday_. He's had a letter from her since then, and she never mentioned… On the other hand, should she have done?

He's more than a little flustered right now—but Mr. Allen keeps his eyes on the mug, his fingers tightening around it convulsively. "Thought we had a thing, a real deal, your Mrs. Hughes and I," he rants on, unaware of his companion's discomfort. "So I went over and asked her, how about it, then? And she refused me…"

He all but huffs in disdain. Of course she'd refuse him; what was he even thinking, suggesting an improper liaison to her!...

"…I proposed, ring and all, and she refused me."

His glass connects with the surface of the table a tad too hard.

_That man proposed to her. Got a ring—family heirloom, perhaps—and spoke her name, took her hand in his… She still refused._

He's not sure what it is he's feeling right now; if he is feeling anything at all. There's just a great, dark void deep within him, and he doesn't know what to fill it with.

"She said she'd chosen this life for herself, and would stick to that choice. She said she had everything she wanted right there, at Downton. She was very kind all the same, of course she was. She's a fine woman, your Mrs. Hughes."

"She's not _mine_," he snarls, his usual defences lowered considerably, because of the alcohol and the topic of their conversation; because thoughts he'd never admit he had, not now when he knows how little they would have meant.

Mr. Allen's head snaps up as he eyes him through slit eyes, mouth curling in a grimace of something akin to envy. "Oh, _isn't_ she…?"

He leaves soon afterwards, unable to continue a conversation with a drunk man.

Mrs. Hughes isn't 'his', or Mr. Allen's, or anyone else's, for that matter. She belongs to herself alone.

_No wonder she refused him—the man doesn't seem to understand the simplest things._

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carson," she greets him with a smile as he hauls his luggage through the back door, "welcome back. Did you have a pleasant season?"

"Indeed I had," he answers politely, keeping a close eye on her face. "How about you, Mrs. Hughes? Any news you'd care to share?"

She shakes her head, and he thinks he can see a smile in the very corner of her mouth. "Same old house, same old problems, Mr. Carson. Would you like some tea before you unpack?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." He watches her walk away, listens to her keys dangle and her voice reverberate against the walls as she scolds the maids.

For the first time in a long while, everything is exactly the way it should be.

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_**September 1906**_

They're still a couple of maids and a footman down; it happens some years after the season, and the heated months of summer. Mrs. Hughes has been interviewing countless girls for two days straight—he wishes he had as much luck with potential footmen, but he doesn't, not this year. Only two candidates responded to the advertisement, and though they might have been adequate for a house smaller than Downton, the definitely couldn't see them working for Lord Grantham.

He's starting to get impatient, irritated, overstretched.

Which is why he all but grits his teeth when Miss O'Brien stops him in the corridor, her customary cigarette and a box of matches in hand. "Since when does Mrs. Hughes interview the footmen, Mr. Carson?" she asks with false innocence, batting her eyelashes as she passes him.

He looks at the closed door to housekeeper's sitting room for a mere second before stepping forward, knocking energetically and opening it without waiting for the answer.

A young couple is sitting on Mrs. Hughes' settee, teacups on their laps. The girl is no more than twenty, twenty-one at most, and wearing a wedding ring; the young man next to her is no more than two, three years older. They seem comfortable enough, relaxed: as if they'd already pocketed the jobs.

When did she usurp his rights to choose the male staff?

"Mrs. Hughes," he says through clenched jaws, trying to control his anger, "would you care to explain what is happening here? Why are you conducting the footmen interviews? And is it customary to offer potential employees a cup of tea?"

She doesn't answer him directly, but turns to the young couple instead, smiling pleasantly. "I think we should perhaps continue this later… this evening, or maybe tomorrow?"

The girl nods, giving him a disbelieving look, and stands up. "We'll be staying at the Grantham Arms until the end of the week," she says to Mrs. Hughes, and leans in to receive a soft, fleeting kiss on the forehead.

"I'll come as soon as I'm free," Mrs. Hughes promises, and squeezes the young man's arm. "It was lovely to see you again, Jerry. Take good care of her, will you?"

_He no longer understands anything._

"I shall," he answers and shakes her hand, before turning to the butler, still occupying the entrance to the room. "Beg pardon, sir. We've taken up too much of your time."

And with that, they both leave, the young woman raising her eyes to gaze at Charles with curiosity. Her eyes are very, very blue.

He knows that colour.

He turns to Mrs. Hughes with a sudden realization. "This wasn't an interview."

She shakes her head, amused rather than angry, which he strongly believes to be a good thing. "No, Mr. Carson, it was not. Whoever told you I was interviewing _footmen_, in the first place?"

"Miss O'Brien," he admits, begrudgingly. "Perhaps she didn't manage to fit in after all."

"Miss O'Brien has a tendency to let her own insecurities cloud her judgment," Mrs. Hughes answers, and pours a fresh cup of tea, adding a drop of milk and a spoonful of sugar: exactly the way he likes it. "I'm rather amazed you felt the need to check on me based solely on her comment."

He accepts the proffered cup, and rubs the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his free hand. "I do apologize, Mrs. Hughes. I've been rather…"

"Mr. Carson," she interrupts him gently, and gestures to the emptied settee, "won't you sit down?"

So he does, and drinks the tea, and before he knows it he's told her about all the problems with finding a proper footman, and the juggling with work between fewer members of the staff, and…

He isn't usually one to grumble, to complain about his lot. He tries to keep up appearances, face all the problems on his own. Isn't this why she admires him? His ability to face the storm, alone, standing proudly against the wind and the rain, never giving up?

Naturally, she sees right through him.

When she leans over to pick up his empty cup, her fingers brush his for the shortest moment. "Sharing your burdens with a friend is now the same as having someone carry them for you all the time, Mr. Carson," she says matter-of-factly, piling the dirty utensils on a tray. "And asking a question, or relaying one's doubts to somebody, doesn't make one look weak in the eyes of a friend."

He looks at her, and thinks of all the reasons why she should be mad at him right now. He barged into her room all but shouting at her, accusing her of something she hadn't done. He had thus interrupted a private conversation she had: probably with a relative, though that's still to be asked about. And _then_ he almost came apart, burdening her with all his problems.

"This shouldn't be your concern," he grumbles, averting his eyes.

"How so? I am every bit as responsible for running this house as you are."

"I know you are, Mrs. Hughes. But _you_ never come to _me_ for help."

She smiles, and picks up the tray. "Perhaps I do, even if you cannot see it."

She leaves him there, dumbstruck, thinking about keystones and linchpins, little things keeping much bigger things upright and steady.

Thinking of _her_, the keystone of this house. How is it that he'd never seen this before?

* * *

Two days later, it's a Sunday, and the young couple Mrs. Hughes had been talking to in her sitting room join her in front of the church. He watches then from afar, warm smiles and casual touches, the way she adjusts the lapels of the girl's coat, squeezes the young man's forearm affectionately. After the service, the girl puts her arm through hers, and hauls her away in the direction of the village. She turns her head and looks at him questioningly, but he simply nods and waves her away. She deserves a moment of peace.

"Your niece?" he asks her that very evening over a glass of leftover wine, watching her brush her fingertips against the surface of a small wedding photograph. She smiles and nods.

"Sally. My sister's eldest. And Jerry—they grew up together, and I've always hoped that…"

"You're very fond of her, and she of you." This isn't a question, there's no room left for doubt in such obvious a situation. "Do you see her often?"

A slight shake of the head. "Last time I saw her was when the family went to spend the winter holidays in London, two years ago."

"You must miss her a lot—your whole family, in fact." Being a single child, and having lost both his parents year ago, he doesn't quite understand this connection, this need to see people of one's own blood, of the same heritage: but seeing her with that young couple, smiling and smiled at, and apparently adored by both of them, makes him wonder: does she ever wish she lived closer to them? Saw them more often?

Had a family of her own?

_These are not the questions one would ask their friend. He would like to know the answers all the same._

_But he doesn't speak up._

"My life is here now, Mr. Carson," she tells him, looking into her glass. "I have made my choice, and I am happy with it. I don't know what must have happened to make me leave Downton now."

"I understand," he says, because he does.

And yet, he cannot help but wonder.

* * *

_They never speak of it again, not until much, much later._

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** You may want to go somewhere private before you read this chapter. Not really descriptive, but… I still feel I should warn you somehow. So there you go._

* * *

**Chapter 4  
**

_**October 1907**_

He all but hums with frustration, runs a hand through his hair messing it up completely, grunts repeatedly as he walks around his pantry in circles. Some of the older hall-boys had been found beating up a newspaper boy by the bicycle shed on this very morning; he had to intervene, separate them, then take the poor lad inside and have Mrs. Hughes take a look at him while he reprimanded the boys, indentified the leader and fired him on the spot.

He feels tired after dealing with the boy's pleas, with his own anger and disdain, with the dark, heavy shadow that hung over the servants' hall as Jack walked out, clutching his small suitcase, head sunk into his shoulders in an image of innocence which everybody knew he wasn't.

He feels beaten. Bitter. Angry. Disappointed.

He smashes his fist against the surface of his desk and groans in half-pain, half-irritation, looking down at the hand as if it wasn't his own, as if it hadn't been attached to his body but controlled by somebody else—an obscure individual that has yet to be identified.

He doesn't hear her enter, doesn't even notice her until she runs her fingertips gently against his reddened skin, probing it, checking for injuries. "Mrs. Hughes," he says in a dull, empty voice he doesn't quite recognize, and winces as her fingers press on a particularly tender spot.

"That," she remarks, letting go of his hand, "was not the wisest thing to do, Mr. Carson."

He dumbly watches her disappear through the door, listens to the faint sounds of her rummaging through the first-aid-kit, and follows her with his eyes as she walks back towards his desk, opens the box and pours some liquid over a clean cloth, taking his injured hand in hers and swabbing it methodically, eliciting a moan or two from his lips.

_His hand hurts—so does his pride—but there is also a different ache, rising deep inside him, consuming him the way a fire does the dry, brown grass at the end of the summer._

"Hush now," she scolds him without any real bite in her voice, wrapping a bandaged around his wrist. "You were brave enough to do it to yourself, you should be as brave when it comes to dealing with it."

He grumbles under his breath, hating that she is right, and inhales deeply to catch the whiff of her perfume in the air, the aroma always helping him to unwind.

Not this time.

She ties a small, neat knot on the bandage and raises her eyes to his, keeping the hold of his hand. "Don't punish yourself," she says quietly, running her fingertips over his skin in small, even circles. It should soothe him, make his pulse slow down. It doesn't.

"I don't know—" he starts, ashamed to admit his own weakness, and pauses as she places the forefinger of her other hand across his lips; her skin is smooth and cool to touch, and he wonders what it tastes like when…

She slides her fingers from his hand to the cuff of his shirt, swiftly disposes of the cufflink, brushes the underside of his wrist, as if trying to take his pulse.

Which races off right into the darkness.

"Hush now," she repeats, pushing him gently against the desk until he's half-perched on the edge. She stands close to him, almost but not quite touching, hesitates a little and rests her forehead on his shoulder. He turns his head, buries his nose in her hair, exhales violently as her fingers travel upwards inside his sleeve, tantalizingly slow, restrained by all the layers of clothing he's wearing.

This shouldn't be happening. It isn't right, it isn't _proper_ for him to lean into her, while grasping at the edge of the desk with his other hand, knuckles turning white, trying to stop himself from touching her, because that would be the straw to break his resisting back…

And then she extracts her hand from under his sleeve, and slides it down the front of his shirt, and lower, lower still—

He gasps and lifts his head from hers, urging her silently to look at him, tell him something, _anything_… What does that mean? Why is she doing this to him? _For_ him?...

She looks up and into his eyes and steps back a little, the only point of physical contact between them being the small, strong hand pressing against him. _So warm. So soft. So…_

The mental connection is much more pronounced right now, so much stronger than everything else that's going on. Her eyes draw him in, calming, soothing, attentive, the blue in them darkening ever so slightly as she bites her lower lip, concentrating.

He wants to say something. Well, perhaps not as much as 'speak', for he isn't sure he'd be capable of putting words together. Make a sound. Let her know how he feels, how what she's doing affects him and…

His head starts to spin and he shuts his eyes, breathing heavily into the air over her head, forcing himself to stay in control, to hold back the wave that threatens to overcome him, to…

"Let go, Mr. Carson," she whispers close to his ear, and her voice—heavily accentuated, deep and sensual—is his undoing.

She stays with him until he comes back to his senses, keeping polite distance, her eyes fixed on the floor as she reaches into her pocket and retrieves a handkerchief which she then places next to his hand, still gripping the edge of the desk.

He wants to touch her. To check whether the blush covering her face and upper neck stretches all the way down under the dark confines of her dress.

_To make her feel the way he does, right now, thanks to her, always because of her._

"You should rest," she says at long last, meeting his eyes with hers (still darkened enticingly) for a brief moment. "I'll leave you to it."

"Mrs. Hughes," he manages to say just before she opens the door, her hand—the one that was touching him mere moments before—resting on the doorframe, "I'd like to—"

"It's alright, Mr. Carson," she interrupts him, inclining her head in his direction. "Everything is alright."

* * *

On the next day he stops a housemaid from polishing the edge of his pantry door.

There is no visible sign of her touch left anywhere.

Unless you count his heart.

**TBC…**


	6. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** Have I ever mentioned that these wonderful characters are not mine, and that I do not deserve all the lovely reviews I'm getting? Well, now I have… thank you!_

* * *

_**January 1908**_

It's been three months already.

Three months of her avoiding him—well, perhaps not exactly _avoiding_, but keeping a slightly more pronounced distance between them, never quite going back to their easy camaraderie from before that evening in his pantry.

Yes, they do talk in the evenings, alone, by the candlelight, drinking wine. Yes, his elbow brushes her arm sometimes, and she doesn't pull away.

But there is a new look in her eyes, a little colder, a little less open, though it's probably utterly unnoticeable to anyone but him.

_He's looking for it. He hopes it goes away. It doesn't._

* * *

Sometimes, he wishes they were somebody else. Younger. Freer, if that's even a word. Able to do things, to speak of feelings. To touch. To look. To embrace.

But they are what they are, there's no point in denying that.

* * *

It's a cold, snowy evening, and the guests that had been occupying what felt like the whole house are finally gone, the crisp, silvery voice of sleigh bells no longer audible in the distance. He walks down the stairs, rubbing his hands together, shaking the cold off his shoulders—and sees the door to her sitting room standing ajar, the warm, yellow light spreading across the stone floor.

She's at her desk, a pile of invoices to her left, her small, steady hand copying the details into a ledger. Her back, turned to the door, is straight as ever, but something in the way she supports her head with her free hand, in the small tremors running down her shoulders even as he watches her, suggests that she's exhausted, physically and emotionally—and he doesn't blame her for it.

He's had help throughout the Christmas season—young Mr. Hadley, the new butler of Grantham House, who came to stay in Downton and study the house, the family and its vices before he starts his work in London. He took care of all the paperwork, sorting through the invoices and filling in the wine ledger (in pencil, mind you, never in the thick, black ink that only the _real_ butler is allowed to use), which has made Charles Carson's life a lot easier these past few weeks. But Mrs. Hughes, he realizes as he watches her from the doorway, unobserved, has had nothing of the sort.

_She looks tired. She would never say anything about it, naturally, but she is not made of stone. Not even the most professional of the housekeepers is._

_He wants to help her. He _needs_ to help her._

_He can no longer wait for her to come and ask him for it._

* * *

He half-expects her to startle as his hands touch her shoulders, gently, tentatively, more a ghost of touch than actual contact. She doesn't of course she doesn't—she must have been aware of his presence for a while now, for this is what she does: observe, listen, and _know_.

"Why are you here, Mr. Carson?" she asks, her voice quiet and even. He lets his hands rest more firmly over her shoulders, thumbs brushing the tense muscles at the base of her neck ever so gently. She's so small, he realizes—small, yet by no means fragile.

"I thought it might help you relax," he replies, hoping it's the right thing to say.

Apparently, she doesn't think so as she puts her pen away and turns in her chair, one hand coming to rest on its back as she looks up at him. "I didn't ask what you were here _for_. I asked _why_."

"You are tired, Mrs. Hughes. I only wanted to help you."

Her fingers clutch the dark wood of the chair tighter, and he thinks he can see her lips tremble a little, but it might be a play of light and shadow. "Why, Mr. Carson? Why did you?"

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out of it.

She seems to sense his distress—this is what she does—and smiles as she stands up, turning away for a split second to close the ledger and replace the pen in the inkwell. When she turns back to him, her eyes are gentle, though her mouth curves downwards a bit. He wants to reach out and brush the pad of his thumb against it, make her smile again.

But he is what he is, so he doesn't do it, and watches her face intently as he says, "Are we not friends, Mrs. Hughes? Do not friends help one another in the times of need? Especially when they see how much the other person needs it?"

There is something in her eyes he cannot quite place, cannot understand the underlying meaning.

Until she turns her eyes away and pushes her chair under the desk, heading for the door and opening it decisively, shivering in the cold draft from the corridor. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. I do appreciate the sentiment."

He all but loses all of his _decorum_ and grunts. "But you will not accept it." It's not a question; after all—she has left him no place for doubt.

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes harbouring the warmth he'd missed during the last few months—the very reason behind his bold action. Somehow, it no longer satisfies him to see that look on her face. He wants something else, something… more intense, more—

"I won't," Mrs. Hughes voice is low, her accent carving out the edges of the words like a hot, iron knife going through soft, yellow butter left in the sun on a summer afternoon. It is not an unpleasant sound; on the contrary, he believes himself lucky to be hearing it. "I won't, because _pity_ is not what I want from you, Mr. Carson."

_It wasn't about pity_, he wants to say, but stops himself mid-word. Wasn't it really?

There is no point in dwelling on it, for it is not the most important issue that needs to be addressed now. "What _do_ you want from me, Mrs. Hughes?" He's surprised by the sound of his own voice, raspier and huskier than he'd ever thought it could become, filled with emotion he doesn't quite recognize. She, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease, watching him with a peculiar intensity.

"What would you be willing to give me, Mr. Carson?"

His hand tightens on the back of her chair. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm not sure what—"

"Then we shall continue this conversation later," she interrupts him gently, choosing a key from her ring without as much as a glance. _Does she perceive it as a part of her body rather than a tool of her work? _"Once you are sure."

He wants to protest—wants to talk to her more, to touch her again—but finds himself nodding, and walking silently out of her sitting room and into the corridor, standing next to her as she turns the key in the lock and presses on the handle, checking it for good measure.

They climb the stairs together, the thick, velvety silence encompassing them together with the darkness, in some ways making this moment an even more intimate one than any they'd shared till this day. He wonders why it is so: nothing has been said or done, nothing has _changed_ visibly: and yet.

There is a promise made between the two of them. And that changes everything.

He needs—_wants_—to answer her. Soon.

And answer her he will.

**TBC…**


	7. Chapter 6

_**October 1908**_

He likes her in the cold, fragile sun of a morning in the fall, a silhouette cut out of waxed paper entering the kitchen and giving the assembled staff a curt nod of her head.

The new second footman, Thomas, follows in her steps, a small packet of letters in his hand. "One for you, Mrs. Hughes," he says and hands her a simple, white envelope. "Lancashire?" There's a smirk on his face, and the butler frowns, not sure what to make of it.

"Thank you, Thomas," her voice is as calm as ever, but something stirs in him at the way her thumb brushes at the words on the envelope.

She doesn't open the letter at the breakfast table—she would never do something that unprofessional. He wishes she had done.

* * *

He finds her outside that afternoon: and unusual place for the housekeeper to be just before tea; he's on his way back from the village where he placed a few orders for young Mr. Patrick's birthday to be celebrated at Downton two weeks from now, and his head full of household matters when he notices her walking slowly between the rose bushes, already wrapped in straw against the winter chills.

He should go in, see Lord Grantham, report the outcome of the afternoon to him. For once though, he chooses to ignore the professional part of his mind, and follow his instincts.

Especially since he can see the white envelope, clutched in her hands.

"Mrs. Hughes." She inclines her head towards him, acknowledging his presence, but doesn't meet his eyes. "Have you had some bad news?"

He cannot quite place the half-smile on her lips. "There is no simple answer to this question, Mr. Carson."

He joins her, shortens his pace, lets her walk in front of him, his eyes fixed on the gentle rise of her cheekbone, the smooth surface of her cheek with just a splash of colour on it. "Did the letter worry you?"

She frowns, as if surprised. "Worry me? Yes, I suppose it did."

"Would you tell me who it was from?" He's pushing, he knows that—but Elsie Hughes is a woman of many boundaries, and sometimes one needs to ask and ask and ask before she yields and answers.

"Somebody that I used to know. A lifetime ago."

"A friend?"

She bites her lip, eyes fixed on something in the faraway end of the garden. "I'd like to think so. Although—not in the way you are my friend, Mr. Carson."

He's not sure if that assessment is supposed to make him feel better, or quite the opposite. "What happened, then? To that friend of yours?"

She fiddles with the envelope a bit more. "His wife passed away last Thursday."

So it is indeed about a man. He was half-expecting it—but to hear it from her own lips makes it much worse than he'd imagined. "Please accept my condolences. Were there any children left behind?"

"A son. A very nice young chap. He would be… fourteen, I believe." She finally folds the letter in half, puts it in her coat pocket. "He is old enough to remember her well. He will have the good memories to help him through it. They both will. But it still grieves me to think about their pain."

They walk together in silence for a long while afterwards. The light dims quickly, and he knows they should be heading back to the house, to their duties.

They can spare another moment.

* * *

"You would have been a good father, Mr. Carson."

How is it that after all these years he never quite knows what she is going to say next? "I don't believe so, Mrs. Hughes. Ask the footmen. They'll tell you otherwise."

"Because you are strict with them, and demand their best behaviour? That is not a sign of a bad parent. Quite the opposite."

"Then _you_ would have been a wonderful mother, Mrs. Hughes."

Her smile is not quite sad. "I hope that I am. For all the young girls who come to Downton. They stay a while, they leave for another place, a marriage, a future—much like any child would have done. If I had made their lives a wee bit easier, I'd be happy to let them go."

"But you care about them," he points out gently. "Letting go is never easy when you care about someone."

"Ah, but the most important things stay the same." She looks up at him, and he cannot help but smile back.

"So you don't regret… anything?" Much depends on this question, and he studies her face intently as she considers her answer.

"Everyone has regrets, Mr. Carson. I do, too.

"Though perhaps I do not regret the things you believe I would."

She turns towards the house, rubbing her hands together—he reaches out, spontaneously, and covers them with one of his, protecting her reddened skin against the cold. She doesn't pull her hands away.

"Perhaps there is still time to make amends. To… stop regretting."

She nods, thoughtfully, and he thinks he can feel her fingers tighten around his for the briefest moment.

"Perhaps. But now is not the time to dwell on that. We have work to do."

Naturally. For Mrs. Hughes, the work comes first—he shouldn't forget that.

"You should have some honey with your tea tonight," she remarks as they enter the courtyard, "to make sure you don't catch a cold." She pauses, just outside the door, and for a moment he thinks she's going to bite her lip and turn away.

Instead, she raises her eyes to his, and he perceives that she's made up her mind—and his.

"Would you care to join me for tea after the family retires, Mr. Carson?"

"It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Hughes."

**TBC…**


	8. Chapter 7

Not many things change after that night.

After all, they are still the same people. The only difference—the great, significant difference that changes the smell of the air around them and the weight of the world on their shoulders—is that they have finally found what they'd been looking for: in each other.

They both need to be close, need to feel that new bond between them, re-establish it over and over again—and yet, sometimes the mere awareness of being able to touch is more important than touching itself.

They find each other on those rare occasions when the house is quiet, the family away. After dinner, in the quiet of the late evening; early in the morning, even before the maids rise. Time slows down, captured like a moth in amber liquid: closed off in the shimmering of light over her collarbone, or the calm, monotonous rhythm of his breath.

Breathe in, breathe out. Closer. Warmer. _Together-er._

Oh yes, then they _do_ touch.

And it feels like coming home.

* * *

He doesn't tell her that he loves her. This isn't the right word; it doesn't even cover everything he feels for her. It's not enough to say: 'my husband', or 'my wife'.

He doesn't ask her to marry him, doesn't want to reduce her to a woman who's dependant on someone—even if that someone is himself. She has proven to be so much more than that, over and over again. But when they retire, many years from now, he would very much like to share a house with her: have something that would be truly _theirs_, his and hers. Something real.

"Do you regret it?" he asks her sometimes as they climb the stairs together, and the keys at her waist dangle with a quiet promise.

"Never," she answers with all the calm in the world, a shadow of a smile lingering in the right corner of her mouth, the one that always tastes of sweet, strong tea.

"Are you tired?"

"Not anymore."

* * *

When he closes his eyes at night, he knows he will see her first thing in the morning.

She's a constant in his life—very much like Downton.

Completely different.

After all, the most important things always stay the same.

**The End**

* * *

_**A/N:**_ _I could have probably dragged this story on forever… which is precisely why I decided to end it here, before I had a chance to lose myself (and whatever is left of my "talent and inspiration"), completely. Still, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for all your kind reviews and the support you've given me along the way. (And a special, fat thanks to Vee: she knows precisely for what.) See you soon, I hope!_


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